Just a Little Gardening —
in Mozambique

I
was somewhat perplexed when the gregarious bearer of keys voiced
his concerns for my safety. A little self-doubt crept in when
he said something about him not knowing any men who would do what
I was about to do.

Lynette,
a friend from my school days, needed to spend a few months in London
doing a nature conservation training course. I suggested we do a ‘house
swap’: my two-bedroom mid-terraced house in London, in exchange
for her farm in Mozambique. It was only for four months, and I envisaged
few problems. More importantly, it would give me the much needed time
I wanted to work on my book. Although, Lynette did hint at perhaps doing
a bit of supervision work, but this did not deter me as I had grown
up on a farm. So, I decided to go for it.

My flight touched down at Johannesburg International Airport where
a driver was waiting to hand me the keys to Lynette’s 4x4. I was
somewhat perplexed when the gregarious bearer of keys voiced his concerns
for my safety. A little self-doubt crept in when he said something about
him not knowing any men who would do what I was about to do.

“Good luck!” He smiled and smacked the hood as I pulled
away. “You’ll need it!”

The
following morning I left Johannesburg heading due east to the Mozambique
border, some 950 miles away. My new home, for the next four months at
least, was a further four-hour drive north of Maputo, the country’s
capital.

The journey to the border was lengthy as the rains had taken its toll
on the roads. Once past the border post, I soon realised the journey
ahead was going to be agonizing. The road was filled with potholes so
large I feared I would not emerge if I dropped into one. Some of them
were filled in, which led me to mistakenly believe that the next set
would have been filled as well.

Gradually
I became aware of the abrupt change in scenery. The earlier large scale
intensive agriculture of South Africa ceased and was replaced by an
undulating barren landscape. The long dusty road was littered with burnt
out armoured tanks, leaving me with an uneasy, almost eerie feeling,
as I passed the first of many parched villages of circular mud huts,
devoid of any signs of life, crops, cattle, or even bird life.

I was told by a border guard that there were numerous road blocks along
the route I was taking. However, the first and only ‘road block’
I was to come upon was that of a group of locals who had filled in a
large pot hole then placed a rock over the top. Clearly the idea was
to force me to stop so they could remove the rock whilst I was digging
for change in my purse. Not me – I was not stopping for anyone.
The rocks were quite small so I drove over them and waved to the men
as they hurled abuse at me. The potholes continued but fortunately I
caught up with a truck weaving through them so I tailgated him for an
hour.

A long, horrific civil war had scarred Mozambique and left a million
land mines scattered around the countryside. The border post official
had cautioned me not to leave my car, as there were still many unsigned
minefields which would only be discovered when entered.

That evening I stopped off in a town called Manicha. I sat in the shaded
bar area in stewing humidity and listened to the torturous chorus of
mosquitoes. Through the trees I could see the town’s barber shop
across the road, offering the unusual option of a ‘Bin Laden style’
haircut.

The following morning I left early before breakfast and bartered my
blanket and several T-shirts in exchange for two avocado pears from
a street child sitting next to my car. He went away content with his
booty. Money was worthless here as there were few shops to buy food
or clothing from as floods had devastated the region. That said, the
desperate impoverishment and suffering of the people did not hinder
their kindly souls; they smiled and waved as I drove past. The contrast
to South Africa was incredible. Here it was calm and peaceful -- these
folk were busy rebuilding their country.

After
numerous detours, due to washed out roads, I eventually arrived at a
ramshackle gate with a hand-carved wooden sign nailed to a tree, indicating
this to be “Orion’s Peak”, Lynette’s farm and
my new home, for a while anyway. I later discovered that the hoard of
clapping and smiling people I passed at the open gate were, in fact,
farm labourers waiting to welcome me.

I
followed the winding road through a Macadamia plantation to the top
of a hill. The scene before me left me breathless. On my left were a
sprawling manicured garden and a thatched-roof farm-house with a wrap
around veranda, shaded by two large Baobab trees. On my right was a
view over the azure coloured ocean and a beach below. Now I remembered
why I ached for this land.

A rugged, amiable fellow with pitch black skin, swathed in crisp white
robes, stood at the bottom of the wide stairs leading to the front door
of the house. He opened his arms in welcome. “Welcome, Madam Dale,”
he said, bowing low, “I am Miss Lynette’s houseman, Madam.
They call me Moses.”

“Hey Moses, how you doing?” I responded, receiving a soul
shake, “… they call me Cindy and don’t you forget
that.”

“Yes, Madam Cindy,” he beamed, showing a row of brilliant
white teeth. “Let me get your bags, Madam.” He turned to
the house and shouted a stern command to another yet unseen person.

Later that evening, whilst sitting on the veranda, I quietly contemplated
my drastic and impulsive move and how my life had changed. Just 72-hours
earlier I closed the door of my 2-bed semi in London and now I sat looking
out over the moonlit Indian Ocean, listening to the sounds of the African
night.

Moses approached carrying a tray with a bottle of home-brewed apricot
brandy, a tumbler, and packet of rum pipe tobacco. “Madam Cindy…
I thought the Madam would enjoy this. It’s been a long day for
the Madam.” He produced an ornately carved wooden tobacco pipe
from his breast pocket and ceremoniously handed it to me. “My
son, Philemon, he made this for the Madam when he heard the Madam she
was a coming.”

“You read my mind Moses. Now go get yourself a glass and sit
yourself down here.”

Following feeble protests Moses soon reappeared with another tumbler
and a pipe of his own. We sat quietly, each alone with thoughts and
pipe.

“The Madam Lynette, she wants to farm the land. She says to me
that the Madam Cindy will fix the land to make it grow.”

“Correct, but Lynette only wants to produce enough food to be
self-sufficient and maybe a little more to sell in the villages; perhaps
some chickens and sheep too. But I’ll need your guidance, Moses.
I'm only here to help start the process.”

We
spoke of the revenue produced by the Macadamia plantation and other
additional crops we should consider. Moses continued to explain how
the civil war had affected the farming community. Landmines were prevalent
and the only way he could see us succeeding was if we found all the
buried mines before starting to plough the fields.

“Where do you think these mines are and how are we going to find
them?”

“The mines they are somewhere there Madam”, he stated,
waiving a hand vaguely at east Africa. “… and we will use
the goats.”

“You're not serious, are you? The goats will find the mines by
stepping on them?” I asked with difficulty.

Moses nodded gravely.

“No way, absolutely not!” I said without having to think.
Moses looked at me solemnly. “Just forget it… and don’t
look at me in that tone of voice!”

We spent the rest of the evening thrashing out various plans of ridding
the farm of landmines, without having to kill anything. I soon realised
that other than a truck load of soldiers with mine detectors, there
seemed to be no option.

Moses saw my concern for the land and its people and assured me that
so far, none of our flock had stepped on a mine. He was, he added, certain
there were no mines on the farm. I felt somewhat assured by this but
said I would rethink the issue in the morning with a clear head. That
night I dreamt of the deadly threat of landmines and angel goats with
wings ploughing the land in armoured personnel carriers.

When I rose the following morning Moses was waiting for me in the kitchen.
He was ready to show me the boundaries of the farm and the areas that
needed to be mine-swept. Knowing the perils that lay ahead we took the
sensible precaution of anesthetising ourselves with several glasses
of red wine before departing.

A dense green vastness lay before us. Moses pointed out that the area
needing to be mine-swept lay directly ahead – some 80 acres. The
photos which Lynette had shown me of Mozambique sprang to mind. They
had left me with the false impression that my life would mostly take
place on a veranda somewhere, whilst turbaned servants brought me coffee.
Now things looked deadly serious.

“How long is this going to take, Moses?” I asked in a small
controlled squeak. “You’ll need hundreds of goats,”
I added.

“Moses
does it well Madam. I have done this for another Master on a neighbouring
farm. I herd the goats around the land until they have covered all the
ground,” he responded, clearly fearless and evidently confident
his goats were indestructible. He continued and assured me the area
would be clear for farming within a month. We discussed it some more
and it became evident, there was no alternative. We would use the goats.

A week later and back under the eaves of the veranda, Moses and I sat
quietly, taking a well deserved break from the baking midday heat whilst
constructing a paddock. We spoke of the hen houses and milking pens
we planned to erect in the weeks to come. I decided to hold off on talks
about Lynette’s decision to rebuild a farm school until after
our customary Brandy and pipe later that evening.

Lunch was served and I became melancholy when I spoke of the dangers
of Africa -- being shot or stabbed, stepping on a landmine, being eaten
by wild beasts. Mosses nodded in agreement. I had this same conversation
with my London neighbour less than a month earlier. She claimed to have
read somewhere that for the most, people who had been attacked by wild
animals manage a more or less complete recovery – given time and
physiotherapy – many even walk again, she said optimistically.

“There are also the tropical diseases Madam,” Moses pointed
out. “But my wife says there are injections for these.”

There was a distant explosion and a puff of smoke. “A goat,”
I calmly stated. Moses nodded solemnly.

I regarded Moses whilst he looked to the horizon, puffing at his pipe.
I drew distinct comfort from the fact that I was surrounded by people
that were irrevocably committed to what was clearly their Africa.

Following
a dinner of caracata and a sauce of greens and tomatoes, which I shared
with Mavis, the cook, I enquired after the staple diet of the locals.
“It is very hard, Madam. Meat, she is a luxury, but we survive.
Every night we eat what me and the Madam eat. Nothing grows.”
I contemplated this for a moment and decided some action was called
for. I lent over the veranda’s banister, put two fingers to my
lips and whistled for Moses who, moments later, came trotting around
the corner.

One of the first things I wanted done was to have a plot of land tilled
and have the soil prepared for planting. Mavis was to manage the task
and involve the other women living on the farm. Moses and I would drive
to Maputo for supplies. Within a week the task was complete and a fenced
vegetable garden was established. Mavis and her team spent hours every
day tending to the tomatoes, onions, carrots, and kale. When the vegetables
were eventually harvested, they kept a portion and sold the rest to
neighbouring farms. The vegetable garden grew and so did the labourers'
income.

***

In the months that followed, using a donkey and rickety plough, Moses
and I took turns in cautiously turning over the newly de-mined fields
(minus several goats) and planted an assortment of cassava, sorghum,
maize, beans as well as a few cashew trees. Mavis’s vegetable
garden had, in the mean time, generated a huge turnover and eventually
included berries, potatoes and sunflowers.

Early one morning I stumbled into the kitchen for an early morning
caffeine fix and found a group of women gathered around the stable door.
Through sleepy eyes I studied them over the rim of my coffee mug for
a while and then asked Mavis what was happening. The crowd fell silent
as Mavis approached. She sheepishly handed me a wad of cash, followed
by a little curtsy.

“Madam, we ladies, we work very hard for the vegetables. We now
have a little money for the school books – for the children, madam.”
I realized then what she was asking. She wanted me to buy books when
next I went into town. I looked up at the clock, poured some more coffee
and considered them sternly for a while more. “Come on then ladies,
don’t just hang about. Let’s go shopping!”

Mavis and Moses sat up front with me while Mavis’ team of eight
ladies sat clucking with excitement in the back of the 4x4. A few hours
later we returned with school supplies – even a blackboard. The
ladies had struck a hard bargain with the owner of a grocery store –
several crates of vegetables in exchange for his blackboard. Moses and
I had watched the bargaining process from a distance and chuckled when
we observed the businessman squirm under the torrent of protests and
waving handbags when he tried to resist.

In our absence Philemon, had assembled a team to start clearing out
and cleaning up the small school house. Part of the roof had blown off
earlier in the year during a storm, but would be repaired with the timber
and masonry we had purchased in town.

Within two days the restored and newly painted school house was ready
to receive its pupils. I was asked to officially re-open it the following
week, allowing sufficient time for festivities to be planned and get
word out to the neighbouring farms that the children could now return
to school.

Subsequent
to the ceremonial ribbon cutting, which was in fact a strip of old sheet,
there was a chorus of harmonious children's voices singing of old African
kings. From the other side of the room I contemplated the children’s
threadbare clothing and came to realize their voices reflected a deep
sadness – a tenor that only Africans have been blessed with. Childhood
innocence filled their eyes; some even had a glimmer of hope for the
future. These faces, without exception, were beautiful miracles of life,
in spite of pervasive misery and deprivation. I noticed some body sores
and bruises, bare feet or torn shoes and was immediately grateful for
the darkness of the room when I felt tears coursing down my cheeks.
It was then that I realized how deeply my own roots had become entwined
with these beautiful people.

All too soon it was time to return to England. I’d said many
farewells in the past but felt particularly torn on this occasion. I
had packed my few belongings into my rucksack and tossed it into the
back of the 4x4 the night before and hoped to slip out before dawn.
That night, my last on this African farm, I tossed and turned, taking
the sheets with me every time I turned in the sticky humidity and eventually
gave up and groped my way onto the veranda where I lit my pipe and enjoyed
my last home brewed brandy. I fell asleep to the sounds of an African
night and woke a few hours later to the sound of crashing surf and a
brightening sky. The sun was peeking over the horizon as I slipped out
the kitchen door and quietly coasted the pickup to the end of the decline,
where I started the engine. When I reached the Macadamia tree line I
stopped and looked back one last time, memorizing the landscape, the
taste and the smells.

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill, heading towards the
farm gates I saw Moses and all the farm labourers — mothers, fathers,
wives, children, grand children — all of them, lining either side
of the road.

Moses stepped out and beckoned me stop. He handed me a book which contained
essays written by the children on how I had affected each one of their
lives. A lump had inexplicably risen in my throat and I tried unsuccessfully
to swallow it.

***

I winced at the taste of the brandy the Air Stewardess handed me. It
was missing something – Moses' magic touch and apricots. I smiled
inwardly. My train of thought was disturbed by the business suit occupying
the seat next to me.

“I say, that’s an awfully nasty gash you have on the back
of your hand there… what on heaven’s name happened?”

I considered my bronzed skin and long-ago manicured hands, one of which
I caught on the business end of the plough. “Just a little gardening,”
I said.

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